Pride
by Shinbi
Summary: It's senior year, and two of the Ducks come up against issues they knew they'd have to face sometime. Deals with racism, and no offense is meant by mentioning of racist remarks within the text.
1. Stereotypes

Disclaimer: Don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me

Summary: Gettin' down and dirty with the race issue. It's senior year, and two of the Ducks are trying to tough it out off the ice.

Notes: I only did Kenny Wu and Luis Mendoza because they're the two I can relate to the most.

****

PRIDE

KENNY WU

"Are you Chinese or Japanese?" Oh for Christ's sake, I'm a damn senior at this school and they still don't now. They come up to me with that god-awful sneer on their faces, and ask in some snooty voice where I'm from. And they just assume I'm Chinese or Japanese. Yeah, I'm Chinese, but for some reason, it always ticks me off when people assume any Asian person they see is Chinese or Japanese. Some of my best friends back in San Francisco are Korean, Vietnamese and Taiwanese. And right now, I'm missing them like hell. 

Asians are supposed to be the model minority, and my parents were always pushing me to aspire to that image. Schoolwork always, always came first. I had no social life up until the Goodwill Games. My parents kept me cooped up in the house everyday and forced me to study, hour after hour. If I wasn't studying, I was practicing piano. It took a lot for me to convince them to let me go into ice skating; they were freaked that I might injure my hands and not be able to play piano. Crazy, huh? Man, sparks flew when I went out for hockey. My father really did a number on me that night, and it always amazes me that I made it to my friend's house without passing out.

If you don't know it, Minnesota is Scandinavian heaven. Blonde hair and blue eyes everywhere you turn. There are Asians around, but not in the suburbs where Eden Hall is. There are maybe three other Asians in the entire school, and two of them are adopted, so they can fit in better. Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking adopted kids. Some of my best friends are Korean-adopted, but they have the American perspective only. They didn't grow up in a Korean household. 

So here I am with my black hair, mud brown eyes and unmistakably Asian face. People look at me oddly in the hallways, not necessarily hostile, but definitely interested. I can't think of any better word. I am an oddity, and I know it all too well. Even on the ice I can't find acceptance. I'm the only Asian out there.

See, there are different types of minorities. For Asians, there are immigrants, who are more inclined to their native customs and cultures, there are adoptees, who grew up in the States and have little or no inclination towards their native heritage, and there are second and third generation kids, like me, who are kind of caught in the middle. I know some Chinese. I can't read it or write it, but I can speak it. My parents speak it at home. When I'm around them, I have to revert back to Chinese custom, but when I leave our apartment, I'm just like any other American kid. I go to the cinema, I chill at the mall, I go to parties. 

But I'll never let go of who I am. I'll never lose sight of my heritage. It's going to bring me down in the end, I know it. I'm going to have to choose, and I know when I can't, it's going to tear me apart. 

LUIS MENDOZA

My parents came to the States in a wooden boat. At least that's what I've been told. They went to the pier in the middle of the night, boarded the boat with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and along with twenty other families, they crossed into U.S. waters and finally landed in Florida. It took them four years to become naturalized citizens. They had to learn English, had to find jobs, had to get a house. And somewhere along the way, I was born. You'll forgive me for feeling a little guilty.

But they made it. We made it. My parents worked hard, worked long hours, worked graveyard shifts, and today, you'd never know they had been dirt poor at some point in time. We live in a modest, four bedroom apartment, with several of our family members who have since made the journey. There are eight of us to be exact, and it can get hectic, but I wouldn't trade a moment of it. When I'm lying here in my dorm at Eden Hall, I miss home so much. 

When I was growing up in Miami, I worked all the time. I worked in groceries, in supermarkets, in drug stores. Any little bit of money helped and I was always trying to help my parents find their feet. I got good grades in school too, and stayed out of trouble. Gangs exist in Miami, although they aren't nearly as prevalent as in L.A. and I had to watch myself, because it was so easy back then to get sucked in. Some of my best friends were in gangs, or were living on the streets. Almost all of them are dead now.

Everything here is hard. People here look at me with disgust. They think I'm a no-good, dirty Mexican who just wants to get some from any woman he can get his hands on. First thing's first. All Hispanics are not Mexicans. I'm from Cuba. Some of my friends are from Bolivia, Ecuador, Peru and Guatemala. Some of them are Mexican. But not all. We all have our own cultures, our own customs, our own words for things. And second, we aren't dirty. We are hard workers, and we earn things like everyone else. Maybe some people get dragged into gang life, but there are Whites who get dragged in too. Just because we're Latino doesn't make us all gangsters. Third, yeah, maybe I'm a flirt, but for real, I'm not looking to get laid. My best friend is an Asian girl who listens to me when I'm having problems and helps me with homework when it gets hard. And my parents are deeply religious, that's why they left Cuba. They take me to church every Sunday, and when I'm down on my knees in front of the cross, I know who I am. Religion is so deeply ingrained in my mind that I can't imagine stepping out of line. 

Eden Hall is not kind to Latinos. Girls grab their purses when I walk by, guys give me nasty looks, like they expect me to come up and start groping their girlfriends right in front of them. Teachers are always skeptical of my work, asking me if stuff is really my own. Sometimes people call me names, like puto, which means whore. It's primarily a Mexican term, but people don't realize that. All they know is that it's a derogatory term Hispanics use, and they use it in their own demeaning way.


	2. Names

KENNY

It's third period and the teacher's pairing us off for our biology projects. My name's called, and I'm paired with some girl; I don't even recognize her name. Shows how much I pay attention, huh? Someone hisses something from behind me and it sounds sort of like, "You got stuck with the gook!" but I can't be sure. I shouldn't get paranoid about this. I mean, some people get so sensitive about race that they hear things as racist when they really aren't.

But it's bothering me. Gook, chink, jap, slant-eyes. I've been called every single one of those by someone in this school. As I walk into the locker room, I get a weird feeling, like I don't belong. Never felt that way before. These guys are my friends, get it? They never made a big deal about the color of my skin or the shape of my eyes. But for some reason, I can't shake it. Almost everyone in here is White, exception claimed by Luis, Russ and Goldberg. And me. 

"Hey, Ken. What's up?" Adam Banks is already at his locker, which is right next to mine. I nod at him and toss my things on the ground. For a minute, I almost think of telling Adam what happened in Bio. I mean, yeah, the kid grew up in Edina, whitest of all white, but he's no bigot. He's always stood up for Luis and Russ when things happen in the hallways. But as I open my mouth to tell him, my thoughts get the better of me. He's never stood up for me. No one has. I don't think anyone realizes I get flack too. 

"Something wrong?" he asks. I shake my head.

"Nah, just thinking." 

LUIS

We're exactly halfway through the hockey season now, which means we start playing opponents for a second time. Today we get Breck. Last time we beat them 5-2, and everyone seems pretty confident that we'll do it again. 

At halftime, we're up 3-1, and we go out calm and collected. Charlie takes the faceoff, wins it and we're on again. Sufficed to say, we've grown up a lot. Yeah, we were good on jayvee, and last year as juniors we really got it together, but this year, things have just fallen into place. It's like no one can touch us. 

"Here you go, Luis!" Fulton slots me a pass and I'm on a break. The goalie makes an error as he comes out and I shift to the right, passing it easily into the net. Simple, clean, efficient. I take the congratulatory high fives and back slaps and start to head back to our end of the ice. 

"You dirty Mexican!" I whirl around and the goalie's sneering at me. His next words are a string of curses in Spanish, and they ignite something in me. I rush at him and in two seconds, I'm punching him furiously, repeatedly, yelling at him to take it back. He's still swearing at me in Spanish; where he learned it I have no idea, but he's pretty good at it. My teammates are yelling at me, trying to get me away, but if you've ever been the butt of a racist barb, you know there's no anger comparable to that. Finally, the ref drags me away and hauls my ass to the penalty box. I'm so angry I can barely register what's going on, and after two minutes in there, I'm still seething. Coach Wilson must see this because he pulls me midway through the third period and doesn't put me back in.

After the game, I don't speak to anyone as we walk into the locker room. I don't think they've ever seen me lose it like that. It's my first penalty of the season, of my high school career. Finally, Charlie breaks the deafening silence.

"What got into you, man?" he asks, sitting down next to me. I glance around the room and see that everyone's looking at me.

"What, you mean Fulton and Portman can pick fights but I can't?" I snap before I can catch myself. Charlie flinches a little.

"No, man. It's just that it wasn't exactly provoked," he replies. 

"Provoked?" I'm on my feet before I realize it, "The hell it wasn't provoked. He called me a "dirty Mexican," Charlie. But I suppose you don't know how that feels, huh? Guess it never occurred to you that racism actually hurts!" He looks shocked, but doesn't retort. I tear off my jersey and gear, grab my bag and leave the room as fast as I can, because I don't want to stay in there anymore. 

"Luis! Wait up, man." I half-turn around and see Kenny running to catch up with me. When he falls into step next to me, I don't say anything. I don't want to hear a lecture from him about how I shouldn't let racist remarks get to me and stuff.

"I know how you feel," he says after a moment. I glance sideways at him.

"How would you know?" I ask, perhaps more harshly than is necessary. He doesn't seem to notice.

"They're always calling me names, too. I'm just too small to take them on," he answers.

"What do they have against Asians?" I ask. He shrugs.

"We look funny. We talk funny. What do they hate so much about Hispanics?" I note his usage of Hispanics instead of Mexicans.

"We look funny. We talk funny," I echo. He smiles a little.

"We make quite a team, don't we? The Asian kid and the Hispanic kid, who look funny and talk funny," he jokes. 

"Hey, man, I think I talk just fine," I reply good-naturedly. Kenny rolls his eyes.

"Whatever." He takes off down the hall and I'm after him in about two seconds. 

Never realized there were kids out there who could make light of situations like this.


	3. No Answers

KENNY

Wow. So much for not getting flack. I seriously was minding my own business, standing at my locker, and a couple guys come up to me and start telling me how I don't belong at Eden Hall, etc., etc. I figured they were just talking about hockey until the names started flying. Started saying, "You Asians are all the same." Stuff like that. Told me they didn't have room at Eden Hall for trash like me. I don't really know when I took the first swing, but I know it was me. Two against one isn't exactly great odds, and I ended up with a split lip, a major bruise on my left cheek and detention for three days. Ouch. However, I think I won, so I guess it's all worth it.

What's bad is the rest of the team knows I got in a fight, they just don't know over what, and for some reason, I'm not anxious to tell them. When I walk into the locker room, I keep my head down, letting my hair obscure my face, because I don't want them asking about the bruises, or the split lip. My face looks like a damn mess, just because I couldn't keep my temper and ignore some bigots in the halls. I'm really mad, but at the same time, I feel kind of stupid. I mean, what's the point of getting so angry? It's not like I can change how they think.

"Hey Ken. Hear you got in a fight." Adam's sitting at his locker. I nod. I really don't want to look at him and see the expectant grin on his face. They're not going to get the answer they're expecting, if they keep pushing.

"That sucks. Over what?" Then again, Adam was always the perceptive one of the group.

"Race crap," I reply, figuring he won't know what to say next, since he obviously wouldn't have a clue as to what that's like.

"Hate to say it, but I'm not surprised." Whoa. Wasn't expecting that one. I glance over at him.

"Why?" I ask, for lack of anything better to say.

"I grew up with these kind of kids, Kenny. I know how they are." For some reason, it sounds to me like he's defending them.

"So are you one of them, then? Or are you one of the righteous ones who's just pretending?" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and Adam looks like I just hit him. I'm just so angry, and so shaken up from that fight that I can't really keep control of my mouth. Swearing under my breath, I turn and head for the door. Vaguely, I hear Charlie calling after me, but I don't turn around. I can't practice right now.

LUIS

Damn. That fight obviously took a lot out of our resident Asian. After hearing his exchange with Adam in the locker room, I figure I can miss practice too, and abandon the locker room as well. I catch up with Ken outside the rink. He's just staring at the ice.

"Hey, man. You okay?" 

"Why couldn't we have been White? You know? Why did we get screwed over?" The bitterness is almost palpable. I shrug.

"Aren't you proud of who you are?"

"Yeah, but you tell me…how easy is it to be proud when all it does is drag you down?" Oy. No answer. 

"We gotta make choices, Luis. You know it as well as I do."

"What do you mean?"

"We can't be both. We either gotta be White, or Asian or Hispanic. Can't be both."

The more I think about it, the more I think Kenny's right. We can't be both. We have to choose. I have to choose between my family and my friends, Kenny's has to choose between friends and other friends. 

I call my mom that night. She's always bugging me about keeping in touch, and I always feel guilty, because she gave up so much just so I could have a better life than she did when she was my age.

"Hi Mama," I say when she picks up.

"¡Ayy, Luis!" She yells at whoever's in the background that I'm on the phone, and immediately, there's a big commotion on the other end. My little cousins must be over, so they're all yelling hello, and of course my father.

"¿Cómo están?" I ask. 

"Bién, ¿y tú? Eres…" She starts off on a rant about how I should come home on vacations because she can't stand to think what so much time away from Cuban culture is doing to me. I assure her I'm okay, but she has a point. 

Ah, damn Kenny for saying that! We gotta make choices. Damn him! How am I supposed to choose between two things I can't live without? 

"¿Qué tienes, m'ijo?" she asks. I realize I just zoned out on her.

"Nothing, mama. Pensando," I reply. We talk for a long time, and I talk to my father for awhile. He sounds weary, and I'll bet it's because he's working three jobs. But he sounds healthy, so I can't be too worried. One of my older cousins, Cira, comes on and asks me if there are any Latinas up my way.

"No way," I tell her, "Nadie." She says she figured as much and tells me to come back as soon as possible because there's a lot of pretty Latinas down in Miami. 

KENNY

I call my best friend up the night after the fight. She's an adopted Korean who lives in San Francisco, and she and I used to talk about race all the time. I always felt more at ease around her than anyone else I knew, because she was natural. She was real. She was who she was and she didn't change for anyone.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Soonie, it's Ken."

"Hey Ken, how's it going?" She sounds really happy to hear from me, which makes me feel better.

"Not much. I got in a fight today." I figure there's no sense in beating around the bush on this one. Soonie knows me like the back of her hand and even over the phone, she can tell if something's bothering me.

"Let me guess. Some white boys got up in your face about Eden Hall being too good for you," she said without missing a beat.

"Right you are," I reply, "And I got a couple bruises and a split lip to show for it."

"Dang, you actually fought them?" She sounds a little in awe. 

"Yup."

"First swing?"

"Me."

"Wow. Congrats." I laugh. Soonie is a tomboy, and she's been in a lot of fights over the years that had to do with race. Sometimes I think she sticks her nose in places it's not needed, like when the Hispanics and the Whites start stirring up trouble, but everyone knows she's a crazy good fighter, and since she always sides with the Hispanics over Whites, everyone knows who's going to win. 

"So how's good old San Francisco?" I ask. 

"Had a Pump tournament a few days ago. Got to the last round before Jin knocked me out on Winter," she answers.

"Combo battle?" I ask.

"No, just perfects. I had 178, Jin got 179."

"Dang." We go on with small talk, and I am glad to hear news about people I remember from my time in San Francisco. Jin, Shoua, Kiyoshi, Chul, Jae, Kyung and so many more. Soonie's best friends with all of them. And with me. I'm grateful she hasn't forgotten about me. 

"So, white-bread Minnesota isn't treating you so well," she says. Knew we were going to come around to this sooner or later.

"Yeah. I think me, Luis and Russ are the only non-whites in the whole school." 

"Wouldn't surprise me." Her words rekindled the guilt I'd been feeling for snapping at Adam, and I figured now was as good a time as any to bring that up. Soonie would understand.

"The other thing is, I all of a sudden feel really uncomfortable around my teammates. Like today, Adam was talking to me about race and I just blew up at him," I explain. Short pause.

"No answers, Ken. I'm the same way. It's something I just live with." Live with it. Soonie's a tough kid and she's learned to live with a lot. I just don't know if I'm tough enough.

"Look, Ken. I'm really glad you called, but Javier and Raul just showed up at my door and are threatening to drag me out of the house if I don't come with them, so I gotta go. Call me again if you want to talk more."

"Alright. Take care, Soon-yung," I say, using her full Korean name. She hesitates for a second.

"You too, Ken. Stay proud."

SPANISH glossary:

¿Cómo están?: How are you guys?

Bien, ¿y tú? Eres…: Good, and you? You are…

¿Qué tienes, m'ijo?: What's wrong, son?

Pensando: Thinking.


	4. In the End

LUIS

Our next game is a week after Ken snapped at Adam. The locker room is a little more tense than usual, and I feel uncomfortable, like it's somehow my fault. But looking over at Ken, I realize I don't feel it half as badly as he does. As we're getting ready to head out onto the ice, I see him approach Adam and offer a hand in apology. Adam takes it willingly, and a smile of relief crosses Ken's face. I catch his eye, and flash him a thumbs-up. He returns it, then quickens his pace to catch up with me.

"Hey. How's it going?" he asks. 

"Good. Yourself?"

"Better. This thing, though-" he points to his lip, "still hurts like hell."

"Yeah, well, the guy punched you in the mouth, Ken."

"Yeah, well, he called me a chink." Damn, but the kid's quick on the comeback. 

"See, I don't get it," I say as we stand in line, waiting to shoot on Julie, "I hear my Asian friends call each other names like that all the time." 

"It's the same as when Mexican kids call each other 'puto,' and stuff like that. Black kids can use the 'n' word with each other, but if a white kid uses it, it's racist. I can call my friend a chink 'cause I'm Asian. But a white kid can't," Ken explains, "Probably isn't fair to them, but I figure if they're gonna beat us down for being who we are, we don't have to be fair." 

Now this is a side of Ken that I'm a little less familiar with. I know him as a quiet kid, who pretty much minds his own business and lets things slide. Never seemed to be one for confrontation. But after that fight, and definitely after this little comment of his, he's seeming like less and less of a passive observer and more and more like a Hispanic kid: loud and proud. 

I'm not knocking Asian kids. I have plenty of Asian friends who will punch anyone out who gets in their face about who they are, but a lot of them back away from confrontations like that, especially the East Asians. I think it's a cultural thing. Chinese, Japanese and Korean kids tend to be more focused on their studies, more inclined to pacifism, and reluctant to argue. Laotian, Hmong, Vietnamese and Cambodian are more hot-blooded. They're the ones that get in most of the fights over race. And they're usually the most arrogant about their pride. I'm not getting down on them, I'm just saying. That's what I see.

KENNY

See, there's a fine line between being proud and being arrogant, and I think I'm walking a little on the arrogant side right now. But for real, can you blame me? I've been at an all-white high school for three and a half years now. You'll forgive me for being a little jaded. I can only go so long listening and not reacting. For years, I've endured racist comments on and off the ice. In San Francisco, it wasn't as bad, because there were tons of Asians, Blacks and Hispanics around. If some white kid got in your face, you automatically had ten or twelve kids behind you, from all different races. When race fights broke out, you didn't even have to know anyone in the fight to get involved. If you were a minority, you fought the first white you saw. Yeah. I'm not even joking.

I'm getting arrogant, because if no one notices when I'm just proud, why shouldn't I? People are always wondering why kids ever get caught up in gang life. Well, here's the reason. They want to be recognized. They don't want to be assimilated and watered down. They—we—want to be proud of who we are, to not lose our culture to the mainstream. Proud? Hell yeah. Arrogant? If that's what it takes. If we have to say, "You're white, you'll never be like us," then that's what we'll do. If we have to say, "We're Asian, we're better," then we'll do it. 

This is how it starts. I've seen it enough times to know. First you try to ignore it, figure people will grow out of their ignorance. Then the anger starts building inside, and you can't fight it, because you don't want to. You want someone to hurt because it hurts so much inside. Then you try to express your pride, because you want it to be known. You want people to know who you are. When it doesn't work, you turn to arrogance, and then you're done. 

See, I told you it was going to drag me down in the end.

__

It's the AZN, nigga f*ck the rest

Dallas to New York, jigga, we the best

Vietnam to Japan to Mongolia

Philippines to Taiwan to Cambodia

Korea, ah-ah

Hometown China, who you got huh?

You got sh*t, nigga, feel the size

It's the AZN better recognize…

F*ck no, hell, you white,

You'll never be like us.

Rice Brothers, "Asian Pride"

AUTHOR'S COMMENTS: I am Korean-adopted, so I relate more to Ken's point of view in this story, but many of my friends are Hispanic, and I tried to reflect what life is like for them as well. I live in Minnesota, which is incredibly white, and the racism is alive and well. Asian gangs are prevalent, as well as Hispanic gangs. And yes, if you're wondering, I walk the arrogant side of the line.


End file.
